


Lover Dearest

by i_write_hurt_not_comfort, x3_NaWnOmSchnuff



Category: Pandora Hearts, ヴァ二タスの手記 - 望月淳 | The Case Study of Vanitas - Mochizuki Jun
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Collaboration, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Letters, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Prostitution, References to Drugs, Rehab AU, Self-Harm, alternate universe - rehab, fic collaboration, with @nawnomschnuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-07-19 00:04:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16129457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_write_hurt_not_comfort/pseuds/i_write_hurt_not_comfort, https://archiveofourown.org/users/x3_NaWnOmSchnuff/pseuds/x3_NaWnOmSchnuff
Summary: A collection of letters written by 14 recovering drug addicts, each from them personally to their drug of choice.Their drug of choice, envisioned as a person./COLLABORATION FIC between @i-write-hurt-not-comfort and @nawnomschnuff from Tumblr/





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by "Lover Dearest" by Marianas Trench, written by the lead singer Josh Ramsey after he came out of rehab. The song was inspired by the letter he was tasked to write to his drug of choice, which - in this case- was heroin.  
> This fic is a collaboration between @i-write-hurt-not-comfort and @nawnomschnuff on tumblr.  
> Please read all appropriate content warnings.  
> Enjoy!

**_Daily progress update_ **

**_29th September 2018 – 20:51_ **

_Over two weeks ago, all 50 residents of the substance rehabilitation program here were given a new assignment._

_They were tasked to write a letter, from them personally, to their substance(s) of choice. Although not mandatory, they were strongly encouraged to address their past involving the substance, all the while envisioning their substance(s) of choice not as a vice, but as a person._

_Today was the deadline, and surprisingly, only 14 residents returned their letters complete._

_However, considering the nature of the task, the responses were longer, and of higher quality than expected. Not the mention the fact it was estimated that only 10 responses would be received._

_It is predicted that the residents who partook in this activity will make the most progress in future, but unfortunately, due to the severity of a majority of their addictions, the future is uncertain._

_At this point, we may take this as minimal progress at best, and should proceed appropriately once the responses have been analysed._

_In order, the 14 residents who returned their ‘letters’ were:_

**_No_ ** **_é_ ** **_Archiviste_ **

**_Elliot Nightray_ **

**_Dominique Sade_ **

**_Gilbert (?)_ **

**_Roland Fortis_ **

**_Charlotte (?)_ **

**_Dante (?)_ **

**_Vincent (?)_ **

**_Astolfo Granatum_ **

**_Oz Vessalius_ **

**_Jeanne (?)_ **

**_Xerxes Break_ **

**_Vanitas (?)_ **

**_Leo Baskerville_ **

_*residents with no surname are recorded as so due to a lack of legal documents provided on arrival_

**_ Their letters are attached here _ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading the prologue! the letters will all be around 500 words each.  
> please drop a review if you get the chance!


	2. Noé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written by @nawnomschnuff   
> content warnings: addiction, swearing, mentions of overdose, mentions of vomiting  
> enjoy~

Dear weed,

Hey. I know that you haven't heard of me in a while.

It's been... months since we last saw each other, right?

It's been harder without you than I thought it would be.

I don't even know why I started... smoking you. I should never have done that. Man, I remember meeting you for the first time at Vanitas' birthday party. Everyone told me that it was fun to smoke you.

And I can’t deny that it was fun because damn, that night had probably been the best one in my whole life.

In a very weird way. I felt alive for the first time. Not that I hadn't felt alive before, but you know, every colour and every light seemed so much more beautiful with you that I knew that that was feeling alive.

Well, it was fun until I lost control and needed you every second of my life. I told myself that I wasn't addicted. I was pretty much wrong about that, but I was so young that I just didn't know how you could destroy lives. My brother was the first one to tell me that I should get help. And he was right, I knew that, but I just didn't want to admit it.

I stopped you for a whole week. I don't know how I managed to do that without any help. I barely slept in that week. I took loads of pills against the headache, but nothing seemed to help.

I was too weak to do that alone and bought you again. Stupid idea.

My brother picked me up when I had smoked three blunts. If that had been another drug, I would've been dead by now.

And that's what makes you dangerous. You don't kill people. That's why they think you're harmless.

But you're not.

My brother didn't know that and drove me to the next hospital. Well, maybe he thought that I had done something else.

In the hospital I slept and slept and when I woke up I threw up several times. He stayed by my side, even though I had fucked up.

I don't usually use words like this, but 'fucked up' describes it the best.

All the doctors told me that I needed to go into withdrawal and that they knew a very good rehabilitation center. My brother begged me to go, the doctors begged me to go, I myself begged me to go.

And so I went.

Today is my last day here and looking back, my withdrawal was absolutely not hard.

There was that guy in my room who had also been addicted to you. He kept crying all the time because he missed you, because he had nothing else left.

There was that other guy who was taken in some days after me and well, heroin withdrawal seems a lot harder and scarier than weed.

I'm thinking of going to schools to keep kids from doing you, because to put it bluntly (Well, that's quite a bad pun...), you're an asshole.

I never want to see you again. Never.

And I'm gonna keep other people from falling for your lies.

I'm gonna protect them because I couldn't protect myself.

\- Noé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! be sure to drop a review if you get the chance!   
> (btw, i hope it's obvious now what this fic will be: a series of letters. and then... the last chapter. heh.)


	3. Elliot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written by @i-write-hurt-not-comfort  
> content warnings: mentions of prostitution, smoking, drugs, addiction, mentions of vomiting and diarrhea, swearing.   
> enjoy~!

Dear heroin,

This is a stupid idea.

I can’t envision you as a person, and even if you were, you’d have definitely forgotten me by now. You’ll probably have gone on to fuck up someone else’s life, destroy their closest relationships, and ruin the only thing which mattered to them.

Our first encounter was at a dumb party. I don’t even remember who hosted it, but given the fact you showed up, I can’t imagine I had much respect for them.

I doubt you remember my boyfriend, either, so I’ll remind you. His name was Leo, and you met him before me. To this day, I still don’t know what you did to him, but it fucked him up, because the next time I saw him, he introduced me to you.

Gullible. I was naïve, and gullible. Everyone tells you all that shit about how heroin is addictive, and how it’ll kill you. But what do they know? I was in a room of people, all balls high off their asses, but perfectly ok. That temptation is something they’ll never understand. It was my decision. A stupid one.

Willingly, I went with it.

Ashamed as I was – as ashamed as we both were – Leo and I continued using you. Maybe it took one night to assume we’d be okay; maybe we were hooked on you after just once.

All I really remember is our lives spiralling downhill from there, until we couldn’t go longer than 3 or 4 hours without you.

That was pretty shit.

We picked up cigarettes, and alcohol along the way. And unfortunately, I lost all motivation to do anything. My entire family, the collection of prideful, successful aristocrats, were ashamed. They didn’t know what was wrong with me – only I knew that – but they knew something had happened. Something was happening which wasn’t getting better.

Oh, and they hated Leo. And for some reason, you brought us closer.

I think that’s what I miss the most about you. You might have been killing us both, but at least we were dying together.

It wasn’t until I was 18 that they knew what was wrong. The disappearance of money, failing in school, spending days and days away from home; it was fairly obvious they’d put two and two together. And then I was confronted with a drug test, and they found out about our secret relationship.

It was rehab or the streets. Rehab meant separation from you, but I hated you at this point. I wanted you out of my life. Out of Leo’s, too. He was far deeper into this than I was.

Within the first week, Leo left. Dropped out, I think. He went back to the streets, but I stayed.

I was getting the fuck away from you and there was absolutely nothing you could’ve done to keep me from making that decision.

6 months later, when I was 19, I checked out of rehab, and started a course in addiction counselling. Heroin addicts don’t usually stay clean as long as I did. You’re toxic like that. So I must’ve been special, or some shit.

The next part of the story I’m not particularly proud of, but at least it led to me being reunited with Leo. Let’s just say I was searching for a little pick-me-up one evening, and coincidentally found Leo had turned to prostitution.

So I took him in. Obviously. I loved him, and missed him.

It was weird. I’d been totally unable to quit cigarettes, but I kept away from heroin. Because heroin isn’t around you 24/7.

That’s where taking Leo in might not have been the best idea, because he was still shooting up heroin. Around me. 24/7. And I paid for his habit, and kept him away from prostitution. We were struggling, but managing.

Then when I was 21, a particularly bad day meant I relapsed. I got home, used the heroin I’d bought for Leo, and shot up the most desperately I ever had.

Leo was annoyingly observant, and noticed immediately. He didn’t stop me, of course. How could he? He’d fallen far deeper into this than I ever had. So I kept using, and fairly quickly, I was back to square one again.

A month later, my boss found out. He told me I could continue with the course, provided I checked into rehab instantly.

And that’s how I’m here, having spent the first week of detox alone in the infirmary, puking my lungs up and shitting my guts out.

You read that? That’s what you did to me, you absolute piece of shit.

It’s been a month now since I last saw you. And damn, my body might be in the right place, but my mind sure as hell isn’t.

I will never be proud of anything I did. Shame and guilt work better. My family have disowned me at this point. I’ve been reduced to nothing but the scum I once looked down on. That I can’t deny.

But you’ll never be able to take away who I am.

\- Elliot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! feedback is more than welcome~~


	4. Domi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this letter was written by @nawnomschnuff  
> content warnings: drugs, addiction, swearing  
> enjoy!

Dear cocaine,

I have no fucking idea why I'm supposed to write this letter to you, but my therapist wants me to do this so... well, I have to, you know? That guy is scary. He's trying to convince me to take this seriously.

Which is complete shit. I mean, I'm not even addicted in first place. I did cocaine a few times, alright, alright, but being addicted is something else! I'm totally fine without it! Yeah, well, I had some bad nights and some nightmares and I felt a little sick, but seriously, alcohol made me feel sicker. Bad nights and sickness are not withdrawal. Withdrawal is harder, I've seen that here with that crazy guy who apparently did heroin.

Well, how stupid must people be to get addicted? Ok, ok apparently not very stupid since Noé is in here too, I mean, oh god, Louis hates us probably.

But, like, Noé IS addicted. I mean, that guy couldn't go without weed for a day in the end. Louis told me that he smoked three damn blunts when I came here. I mean, I'm here for no fucking reason, but nobody here believes me.

I'm not addicted. Of course I'm not.

I mean, I'd really like some coke now. It's funny to be high. Just because that's funny doesn't mean that I'm an addict. Why would I be an addict? Like, that makes no sense.

And just because I tried to get out of here doesn't mean that it was to get coke! I just really hate this place. That one boy here wouldn't stay in his room and he was crying for fucking days, I have no idea how Noé had been able to handle him all that time since he was in the same room as him.

I only cried once because of a nightmare I had. I was trembling for some days, ok, ok, but that was not fucking withdrawal.

My anxiety levels were just really high because everyone in here feels like shit except for me.

Ok, ok, maybe I do feel like shit. And maybe because of that I really want some coke. Or some alcohol, or some kind of amphetamine. I mean, there's nothing wrong with drinking alcohol, so how is coke any different? It makes no sense, like, seriously, my therapist should shut the fuck up.

I'm feeling bad because of this here and there's no other reason for me to be here, but no. They just say I'm in denial.

Well, denial. I can't deny being an addict when I'm not, right?

Oh fuck, that sounds like something an addict would say.

Maybe I actually am addicted? To be honest I have no idea of how all of this works. I mean, yes, yes, I have those cravings. That's what they call it here when you really want to do some drugs.

But doesn't everyone have that? I mean, I know enough people who want to drink alcohol really badly and they're not addicted. I mean, I really have to think of Louis here. If there's no wine in the house he gets grumpy, because he just likes the taste. But if there's none, then he'll just drink some coke.

Oh, that was a rather bad pun, wasn’t it?

Maybe I should ask my therapist what the symptoms of addiction are again, I mean, he probably told me a thousand times now, but I mean, I can't remember all of them. There’re too many.

Oh god, is my brain already dead because of the cocaine? Well, maybe I actually AM an addict and I'm really in denial.

Louis really hates me, probably. I caused Noé to end up here too. I caused him to be alone. And I'm just so terribly sorry for it. I should make this up to him.

No coke for me anymore, so this is goodbye from me, ok? I don't want to hurt him and Noé more than I already have.

-Domi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! be sure drop a review if you like!! :D


	5. Gilbert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written @i-write-hurt-not-comfort  
> content warnings: smoking, addiction, mentions of depression, suicidal thoughts  
> enjoy~

Dear weed,

I’m not really sure what I’m meant to be writing here, so first of all I apologise if this is vague. I miss you a lot, and I’ve found it difficult to put that into words.

We first met when I was 18, I think.

It’s an embarrassing story, but I was first recommended you by a friend. I’d been to hell and back (I thought as much at the time) trying to stop smoking cigarettes, and with mid-way through nicotine withdrawal, one of my classmates told me about you.

“It’s like a less addictive type of cigarettes,” were his words. His exact words. And of course, that sounded great. I was stressed enough as it was, and I’d never really had any moral ideas about drugs that stopped me from smoking you. My parents were still driving themselves mad over my baby brother who was lost at birth.

It sounds hardly believable, but it happened. I never thought it had really affected me, though.

Not until I started smoking you, and suddenly, I realised how stressed I’d been. Because stress was more noticeable without you.

So to avoid that, I started smoking you more and more. I picked up cigarettes again. The hit when you mix with cigarettes is even better. It was like satisfying two addictions with one smoke. One spliff. One blunt. One joint.

I never drank alcohol though, and that makes me glad, to be honest. The boy I’m in a room with here is a few years younger than me. He’s 18, and his name is Oz. He’s a really inspirational person to me, because he’s a lot stronger than I am. But he’s badly hooked on all sorts of things, one of them being alcohol. I want him to be happy. He deserves better than me.

Sorry, I’ve gone off topic.

I don’t remember how badly things went. And I don’t like the word addiction. They make it seem too much like a disease here. It was hardly a disease, particularly since you never hurt me. Physically.

My willpower and motivation slowly deteriorated. I dropped out of college by the time I was 20, and lost my job at 21.

I tried to stop you for the first time after that, when my parents threatened to throw me out. But I was the most depressed I’d ever been, and within two days, I was back to lighting up a joint at every break in the day. And things just got worse and worse.

By the time I was 23, I was depressed regardless of whether I was high or not. The doctors blamed the drugs on the depression. I wouldn’t blame you for it, though. If anything, you relieved it. I’d always been depressed. I just noticed it more when you weren’t around.

And then when I was 24, I checked into rehab under the doctor’s recommendation.

I don’t like it here. It just reminds me why I was depressed. I miss you a lot, and even writing this has caused a surge of cravings. Sometimes I think about ending it, as well. But that’s just between you and me.

I never really know whether I was addicted to you or not. Maybe I was, however, I think I was happier when you were around, so what was the problem? I doubt I was destined for anything better. That, or I’ve always been a bit depressed.

Sorry, I’ve made this too depressing.

I’d like to be with you again, but if you’ve found someone better to mess with, then I’m content with staying like this. I can keep my head up if I have to.

And you never know, maybe I’ll turn out better off without you anyway.

From, Gil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!  
> be sure to drop us a review if you get the chance! :DD


	6. Roland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written by @nawnomschnuff   
> content warnings: drug use, drug addiction, swearing, mentions of schizophrenia  
> enjoy~

Dear Crystal Meth,

You destroyed my goddamn life.

I should have never swallowed you when my ex gave you to me. But damn, I was young and stupid and I just wanted a nice party after I had caught him with another guy. I'd been down. Depressed. Destroyed.

Well, it was indeed a nice party in the end.

And I mean, I've drunk alcohol before when I had had problems. So what made me think that swallowing that was a good idea?

Alright, alright, I had caught Olivier banging another guy. I had been fucking hurt. My heart had hurt so much that I had thought that it was a heart attack. I slammed the door shut, ran back towards that dealer and asked him were Olivier had taken the crystal he had wanted to give me.

I shouldn't have done that, but I was so hurt, I will never forget all the pain in my body. And damn, that crystal felt good.

In the next morning I regretted it, but I was still feeling like shit. I kept crying and crying and crying and asking myself why he had done this.

But no, instead of trying to talk it out with him, I went to the next dealer I knew and asked him if he had some more ice.

And he had it.

Well, dear crystal. You're an annoying little fuck. I'm still in the middle of my withdrawal right now. It's been two weeks since I got here. Of course I'm over the worst by now, of course. But I still can't sleep and I still have panic attacks twice a day. I would like to say that I've gotten used to them by now, but I haven't. They're awful. I begin trembling and screaming and crying I just want some meth every time I get them because they're by far the worst thing ever.

And I get them almost every night when I dream of him. It's been over a year now, I haven't seen him in over a year.

He could be dead, he could also be a stupid addict, and I wouldn't know.

I still miss him. I still wish that I was the one holding him in his arms. I still miss his kisses and damn, I even miss our arguments. I should have gotten over him by now, but I didn't.

How am I supposed to get over the love of my life?

I don't think that it's possible to ever forget him.

I told my therapist that I really want to see him again, but he doesn't think it's a good idea.

And I know that it's not. It'd remind me of the first time I met you.

Oh, you destroyed me more than Olivier did.

My therapist thinks that the voices I hear sometimes will develop into a serious case of schizophrenia. And he said that my insomnia that I have because of the withdrawal will never leave.

I'm afraid of that. I don't want to hear those voices forever. They always tell me to go back to you.

I don't want that. But I don't know if I can resist for forever.

To be honest I don't think I can. It's hard without you.

I feel all the pain.

I hear all the voices.

I hear Olivier's voice.

I hear your voice.

As soon as I'm out of here, I'm going to call him. I'm going to do it. I don't care if I relapse.

I don't care as long as I can see him again.

-Roland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! be sure to leave a review if you can!


	7. Lottie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, the lack of capitalisation is intentional. this chapter was written by @i-write-hurt-not-comfort
> 
> content warnings: drug use, addiction, ref to accidental suicide, swearing, mentions of prosititution 
> 
> enjoy!

dear cocaine,

aww, isn’t that cute? giving each other nicknames… that’s what couples do, right? i called you charlie, or coke, or snow. and after a while, you labelled me as ‘addict’.

our first meeting was love at first sight, if you ask me. i was introduced to you by my friend, Levi, who really got on with you. (i use past tense, because Levi isn’t here with us anymore since you weren’t as nice as him as you were to me, but i’ll get to that later.)

ever since i was 14, i’d smoked a ton of pot. everyone did it, so what was the harm? and then when i was 16, Levi brought you to me, and said you were 10 times better than weed. and you were.

dare i say euphoric?

i’d just started A Levels, studying english language, law, and psychology. but so quickly, they became irrelevant in my life, and i think i dropped out by the time i turned 17.

the way you make me feel is something i can’t put into words, i’m afraid. even now, i still crave you in my life. every sound, every sight, was just amplified. the world always seemed beautiful, and i could take in so much more.

and slowly, but surely, i began to love you more and more than when i’d first met you.

love is a funny thing, isn’t it? to be honest, i always saw you as a person. a person who was pretty toxic to me. a partner who i knew was unhealthy to be with. but all of that was part of your game, right? you manipulated me, so i wanted you more than anything. when you weren’t around, i turned miserable, and craved nothing but you, and the feelings you made me experience.

you were pretty good at that, you know?

i knew i had a problem. i never once stopped to question that. however, i wasn’t particularly motivated to change that. i didn’t mind that i had a problem. whenever you were around, my problems didn’t matter to me.

my mother tried to cut my allowance, and send me to rehab multiple times. but she was an alcoholic, so what did she know? we were both constantly desperate for our next fix. the only difference was that hers was a little more legal than mine.  

everything, including the addiction itself, was like a constant roller-coaster. i knew i was addicted, and i enjoyed it, to tell the truth. it was thrilling; a little extra excitement in my life.

the fun and games ended when you killed my friend.

well, you didn’t kill him exactly. he just used you a little too much, and went a little crazy. and then he fell off a bridge, and drowned in the river.

the death of my dear friend Levi is something i’m not sure i’ll ever forgive you for.

but i still kept using you, nonetheless. not only did you alleviate any guilt i felt towards Levi’s death, but you also reminded me of him. reminded me of getting high with him, and that extra feeling of warmth and pleasure reminded me of the few times i fucked him, as well.

so i needed you more than anything, and i did anything to keep you in my life.

by the time i was 18, i’d started prostitution. nothing too serious, just a profitable fuck with a few horny club-goers every now and again. that was all a part of the roller-coaster with you, right?

this whole ride was getting a little dull, though. i’d built a tolerance to you, and the sensations you brought me, so i didn’t even get high anymore.

i tried erasing you from my life.

haha.

as i said before, you’re a clever one, aren’t you? you had me crawling back to you after two days.

and then, just after i turned 19, my mother put an end to our relationship. she sent me to this place, threatening to kick me onto the streets if i didn’t go to rehab.

i might have been an addict, but i had class, you know? i wasn’t going to live on the streets. i’m better than that, i said.

so i checked into rehab.

and that’s where i’ve been, without you, for the last two months.

things are pretty dull when you’re not around. i’ve been pretty depressed.

i mean, i guess that’s a sign that things got pretty out of hand, but i really do miss you. you kept me happy.

i know i had a problem. i know i was addicted, but hey. maybe when i get out of here, you and i can have a casual relationship, yeah? like friends-with-benefits, if you like.

ah, but you wouldn’t want that, would you? of course not.

you only wanted me around so you could mess up someone else’s life forever.

well, jokes on you. you’re gonna have to try a little harder if you want to fuck up mine.

love, yours truly, Lottie xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading and be sure to leave your thoughts! :3


	8. Dante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written by @nawnomschnuff  
> content warnings: prescription drug abuse, mentions of anxiety and insomnia, addiction, withdrawal, swearing.   
> enjoy~

Dear Valium,

Well, not to be rude or anything, but you're a stupid fucker and the psychiatrist who gave you to me is an even more stupid fucker.

Ok, ok, I had tried everything for my insomnia and anxiety. I had tried therapy and mental hospitals and antidepressants that were also supposed to calm me down. And nothing worked.

But still, curses on him, curses on you.

The problem was that you helped. You helped a fucking lot. “You'll only take them for a couple of months to think about what you're going to do next.”

Well, what happened next wasn't going to a mental hospital again and it sure as hell wasn't another antidepressant either, no, it was an addiction to you.

Thanks, doctor.

I've taken you for seven months. I started with 10mg and ended up taking 80 a day.

80 milligram, fuck, that's a lot.

Well, obviously you've helped me through my days a lot. I slept well (ok, I slept well for whole days sometimes), my panic attacks and my anxiety were completely gone.

It was so perfect, seriously.

But it was for a price.

And the one who set up this price was you.

As I was told, I stopped taking you after the two months. And everything came back. I knew about the risks and I knew that my doctor wouldn't give me another prescription (The. One. Damn. Thing. He. Did. Right.), but there was the internet. Yeah, the internet. The friend of everyone who was or is addicted to you, little shit.

I began ordering you there, on that... rather dubious website.

Anyways, you helped me again. Or ruined me again.

I don't really know.

Both. You helped and ruined me.

My anxiety disappeared, I slept well, I lived well.

Yeah, fuck, until that website sent me fake pills and I was thrown into cold withdrawal.

I was throwing up a lot and faded out, and I was too afraid to call the paramedics because my goddamn anxiety returned.

In the next night I woke up trembling and sweating hard and all my muscles hurt so much it was crazy. I couldn't even stand up and I was seriously afraid of dying, so I decided to grab my stupid mobile and call the paramedics.

It was a good decision. They had you with them and gave me a little dose so that I was thrown out of withdrawal first. They asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital with them because it was easier to get into therapy from there. Well, I packed my things with their help and got taken away to our local hospital.

That's how I ended up here and I don't know if it's the best or worst thing that has happened to me. Most have really depressing life stories unlike me, like that Vanitas guy who left yesterday on his own free will after just a few days, or Astolfo.

I feel so wrong here. I know that I'm addicted, but I had no real reason to fall for you. No damn single reason.

Astolfo had a reason, that Vanitas guy had a reason.

But I didn't.

Anyways, Valium, I won't take you once more. I'm going to a mental hospital straight after leaving here again to finally deal with my anxiety in a healthy way. Maybe that will actually help me.

I'm so afraid of taking you again though.

That fear will never let me go because I still remember how good you made me feel.

But for now, this is a goodbye.

Not for now. Forever. I will not go back to you.

(At least I hope so.)

-Dante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! as usual, comments are more than welcome! :3


	9. Vincent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written by @i-write-hurt-not-comfort  
> (it's messed up, yes, yes, im aware. but hey it's vincent, what else did you expect?)  
> content warnings: drugs, addiction, swearing, mentions of porn, rape, torture, child kidnapping, child abuse, child rape (mentions, nothing graphic)  
> enjoy~

Dear meth,

Funny, isn’t it? The fact that I’m being asked to write this.

All the psychiatrists here know nothing. The therapists and counsellors know nothing. They’re naïve, ignorant, stupid, inexperienced. What qualifies them to know anything about what drug addiction is like?

And yet they’re the ones acting like they can help me. Funny.

They could never understand why I turned to drugs. They’re too privileged to understand.

I was a victim of human trafficking as a child. I was kidnapped when I was a baby. All of my earliest memories are being cut, tortured, touched, raped. And all of it was recorded.

That’s the internet for you.

Fucked up.

Or perhaps that’s just the world.

I didn’t escape until I was 11. But I was worth nothing. I wished I’d never been born. My body was tainted, my mind was warped.

The orphanage I was sent to made that worse. They thought I was psychotic. They didn’t believe anything I told them. So they gave me all the medication in the world.

 A stupid idea, really. Because from the age of 13, I figured out that the medicine was much more effective if you crushed and snorted it. And then, I discovered pot.

I really do hate this world. I hate my life. But when I was high, something seemed better. Oh, don’t get the wrong idea: my problems could never be fixed. However, things seemed bearable.

By the time I was 14, I was high almost every day of my life.

My empty, tragic, pitiful life. It was like something out of a drama series, really.

Perhaps it was? That would explain why no one believed me.

I’m not sure though. Reality and my perspective seem so different.

When I was 15, and out on the streets, selling myself for drugs (I was good at sex. I hated it, it was disgusting, it reminded me of why I’m so tainted), someone offered me some crack cocaine.

Crack was very addictive. That was a lifestyle that was amusing to live. I still remember the face the nurses gave me when I spent days puking my guts up and screaming from the withdrawal. That really was amusing. They were truly clueless. Stupid women.

Eventually, though, crack got boring. I didn’t get high anymore, and the world around me began rearing its ugly head once again.

So after two years, I quit. Cold turkey. I didn’t find it very difficult. Painful; physically demanding. But emotionally, I felt nothing.

By the time I was 18, though, I’d broken my clean streak.

I moved out, and started dealing drugs. Addicts are funny.

See, I was able to work with them. I knew what it was like to be in their position. And I knew how to help them. And really, the only way to help an addict is to sell them their drugs.

Addicts don’t want to be clean.

These assholes don’t get that.

At one street party, I think it was, I was offered you. Meth, crystal; whatever you want to be called.

The feeling you gave me was different. Life seemed more thrilling. Suddenly, things seemed to have a purpose.

It was exciting, as well, whenever I found a new way to use you. Smoking, snorting, swallowing, or injecting. Smoking was my favourite. The vapour would fill my lungs, and you made me feel warm.

Warm, with a sense of belonging. The only sense of belonging I’d felt before then was to the online illegal porn community.

Besides being high, though, my life was indeed pointless.

When I was 20, and had been smoking, injecting, or snorting meth for a solid two years, I went into the same industry which I’d grown up in.

How ironic is that?

It was simple. I made money making torture videos with whoever my colleagues and I found. And I used that money to buy drugs online.

You never got boring. Whatever you were made with – it changed – always had a different effect. A new high.

I also tracked down my actual family, and came to learn who they were.

I had an older brother. Did you know that? I always wanted an older brother.

When I was 23, only a few days ago, I was arrested.

I wasn’t arrested for the kidnapping, or the torture, or the sexual assaults. Of course not. The police are too incompetent to trace any of the back to me.  

It was merely for prostitution. Some whore ratted me out, obviously.

They didn’t throw me behind bars, though.

To them, I was just another drug addict. A meth-head.

So I was thrown into rehab, instead.

And that’s where I am now, so it seems. In this shithole. Going through withdrawal makes me want to kill myself, to tell the truth.

I never wanted to go to rehab. I never wanted to get clean. I want to be high.

What use is my presence in this world if I’m not high?

I want to be high.

I need to be high.

Ah, but that’s what you want me to say, isn’t it? That’s what’s expected of me.

It’s not like I’m mentally ill, or anything. Just an addict. That’s all. How silly of me to expect anything better of myself?

Why don’t I give you something they won’t expect? But, ah, this stays between you and I, you know?

I have a brother. So I mentioned.

I saw him here.

He’s here with me.

His name is Gilbert.

He’s my older brother.

I want to speak him. I want to hug him. I want him in my life.

But I can’t tell him that. Because it’s the truth. And I don’t believe I can face the truth if I’m not high, unfortunately.

So I suppose I’ll just watch him from a distance? And then when I’m released from this hell, you can join me again.

It’s a small world, isn’t it?

A small, pathetic, wretched world.

Sincerely,   
Vincent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! ^^  
> feedback is more than welcome, as usual!


	10. Astolfo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written by @nawnomschnuff (and it's my understanding that he is writing a this story in full, so if you like this AU, look out for that! :D)  
> content warnings: swearing, mentions of suicidal thoughts, trans character, ref. to dysphoria, drugs, addiction  
> enjoy!

Dear weed,

I have nothing to say to you.

This letter is just useless. I didn't get addicted to weed by accident like Noé, my roommate.

I chose you because I knew that you couldn't kill me, because I needed a drug to feel happy again.

I have never felt happy, not even once in my life. I'm only fifteen. People in here are always surprised that a fifteen-year-old kid is in a rehab center, because most of them got addicted because they tried it at parties or because they lost someone or whatever.

Well, I also lost my family. But I never gave a single fuck about them either.

My parents never treated me like they should have treated me. I told them again and again that I am not a girl, but nobody would believe me, especially when my breasts started growing.

They were the main reason why I decided to get drugged up every day. Every time I looked at them, I just started to cry. I know that I'm not ugly, but this is just not my body.

When you were there, weed, I didn't have to feel it anymore. Damn, once I fucked with that guy when I was high, naked. I wouldn't fuck with a random stranger and I also wouldn't fuck with a random stranger naked with seeing my breasts without being high.

Damn, I just stopped caring about them as soon as you filled my lungs.

I'm not special, not like Noé, who left two days ago. He wants to help people. I wished he had been there for me when I was at my worst.

Or at my best, I prefer to call it because shit, weed, you were good, you were a good friend, but I know that I won't need you anymore one day.

If I continue to be stable for one more year after that, I can finally start testosterone and have those stupid lumps of fat removed.

I feel like crap, yes, I need some weed right now. But it's one year. It's only one year until I can be happy by myself, without any drugs that make me fuck with people I don't even know.

I just wished that I had realized sooner that my family would never believe me. I wished I would have realized that before they all died in that car crash when I was out buying weed from some shady guy. (I won't lie though. I still wish that I had also sat in the car. Man, being dead. Sounds beautiful.)

I could have gotten out of that house so much earlier, I wouldn't have needed to continue wearing frilly dresses just to keep them happy. I hated dresses. Of course they made me look like a girl. The people in the orphanage I was brought to told me how cute they were and that they suited me well.

Shit, I never wanted to look cute or good, I just wanted to look like a fifteen-year-old guy, not like a girl in frilly dresses with long hair.

The first time I started looking like a guy was when I came here. I decided to tell my therapist that I didn't want to be put in a room with a girl and Noé agreed to having me in his room. After all he doesn't really care about gender or sex, so we just matched, I guess.

I mean, I do care about sex, but I'm in a rehab. I won't have sex here, that would be weird.

But well, he asked me about all the things people get confused about if they don't know the term 'transgender'. He asked me about my pronouns and about how I chose my name, about how it felt to be trans.

I acted pissed, even though I absolutely wasn't. He was the first one to really accept me for who I am and he offered to lend me his clothes so that I didn't need to run around with the dresses from my parents. He's a lot taller than me, so that barely worked out, but it did work out enough to hide my body. And shit, that did feel good, hiding what I have always hated the most.

He was also into weed, on accident. (Shit, I have already mentioned that. Noé and weed both fucked up my brain, apparently.) I told him that I was looking for a drug on purpose and he screamed at me. I didn't tell him that I had started weed when I was twelve, I didn't want to disappoint him. He was just... he was the person I had always needed.

He didn't feel like a parent to me, neither like a brother or a friend. He is so much more.

He was almost through the physical symptoms of his withdrawal when I came here. And I was right at the start. He would sing songs to help me fall back asleep, he would stay awake with me when the insomnia hit me again. He even managed to be in the same room with me for the first five days in which I kept crying.

Shit, I would be lying if I didn't say that that guy saved my stupid ass. I wished that we could have gotten high on weed together once, shit, Noé just looked good, but I couldn't confess my feelings to anyone without being high. That's not anywhere near possible.

I miss the taste of weed, fuck. See, weed? I loved you, now I hate you, but if I didn't find out that my therapist could get me into gender therapy, I would have continued doing you.

But that's basically all I have to say to you, nothing else.

I want to see Noé again. He promised to visit me this weekend. I'll keep the letter until then, maybe I can write some more things about him.

Shit, this turned into a love letter out of nowhere, I do sound like a teenage girl. I can't really hate on people for misgendering me.

-Astolfo

PS.: He visited and brought me tons of new clothes in my size. He's an angel and I'm not going to ever let that guy go. Shit, I've never been in love, but this is love. Or is it just me being thankful? Tbh, no idea. I just want to do weed with him one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! and ah, all the letters from here on out are a little longer. please leave us your thoughts! :3


	11. Oz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written by @i-write-hurt-not-comfort  
> content warnings: mentions of child abuse and rape, anxiety, prescription drug abuse, addiction, smoking, binge drinking, alcoholism, mentions of vomiting, references to withdrawal, mentions of seizures. 
> 
> enjoy~

To alcohol (and tranquilisers, I guess?),

It’s a little sad I’m being made to write this letter to you. You’re not a person, I don’t think, and you never will be.

I don’t think a person would ever be so… cruel.

But for the purpose of this, I’ll pretend you are.

I don’t like telling people about my past, my problems, or how I feel. No one deserves that burden. But, ah, I burdened you with my problems for a very long time. I relied on you to deal with me and listen to me in my darkest times. In exchange, you placed another burden on me, of equal weight. Possibly more.

A little unfair, but I’ll take it. I deserve it.

But anyway, I’m sure you’re used to me telling you about my past by now, so you won’t mind too much if I say again, one more time, right?

I grew up with just my father. My mother died during childbirth, I think. That’s what my father used to say to me, at least.

He used to say a lot of other stuff to me, though. Most of it I can’t write here. I don’t want to think about it, let alone write it anyway. He’d beat me up, as well. And if I spoke a word outside that house, I’d be beaten and raped again.

I was finally taken out of his custody when I was 11, and put living with Uncle Oscar.

But he knew something was wrong.

He saw I wasn’t sleeping. He saw how I wouldn’t eat. He saw my panic attacks. He saw how I flinched when anyone came near me. And he saw how I’d cry whenever anyone put their hands anywhere near my thighs, or crotch, or stomach.

He confronted me. And then before I knew it, my father was arrested. For life, I think.

Oscar had hoped that would give me the closure, but it didn’t. I still had panic attacks, daily. I struggled going to school. And he wanted me to be happy.

So he sent me to a therapist. And they prescribed me Diazepam. Uhh, a high dose, as well. It eased the anxiety enough for me to finally start secondary school.

I still wasn’t sleeping, though, and when I was 12, Oscar sent me back to the therapist. I was given a barbiturate for sleep, because the Diazepam wasn’t really working for that.

Whether I formed a dependency on them or the Valium first, I don’t know. I just kept taking them, because they made my life somewhat bearable.

But the things my father had said to me were still fresh in my mind. That was something I couldn’t escape. And that’s where you came in.

Oscar let me try alcohol a few times. I’d never liked the taste. And I loved Oscar, but he drank and smoked a fair bit.

One night, when I was 13, he had a business meeting, I think, and was unable to find someone to look after me.

I shouldn’t have, but I took advantage of that. And I drank. I drank every drop of booze in that house. I drank until I was physically sick, unable to keep down even water. It was one of the grimmest experiences of my life (alcohol and Valium isn’t a good mix), but I could never forget the feeling you gave me. The alleviation of how horrible everything felt.

Oscar found me, sure enough. He felt bad for me, really. I was still throwing up, and I cried. I apologised over and over again.

But do you know what he did? He didn’t tell me off. He just smiled, and said it was okay. And made me promise not to drink again.

I couldn’t forget that feeling, though.

So I kept drinking. I think I lost track of how back things got after that.

There was one day when I was 14, I think, when I snuck vodka into school. I had such little self-esteem, I didn’t care how low I’d sunk. I just wanted to be free.

Someone told me Xanax was good. I knew it was addictive, and hell, dangerous to mix with alcohol, but I’d just stopped caring. Eventually, I was buying Xanax and Valium and sleeping pills and whatever else I could find from the streets. I took those pills like candy.

But hey, at least I was sleeping?

I stole Oscar’s alcohol, mainly. You were expensive, and illegal for me to buy.

When I turned 15, he finally noticed that something was wrong. Something bad had been happening which he hadn’t realised was happening. I stole his cigarettes, too. And sure enough, smoking turned into my next habit. (Ah, he really wasn’t happy about that one.)

He asked me, honestly, if I’d be able to stop drinking. And, after crying to myself for hours upon hours, I shook my head. Because I couldn’t.

He begged and pleaded me to go to rehab. But at the same time, he was understanding, and patient. He was considerate of the fact I had a problem, and that it was difficult for me.

When I was 16, and would soon be turning 17, I finally agreed to go to rehab.

I didn’t want to spend my life according to when I needed to be with you.

Ah, but, saying that is much easier than doing it.

The withdrawal was horrible. In the first few days, even with medication, I had upwards of four seizures a day. I almost died multiple times. That sucked.

And the panic attacks. They had to take me off all the medication, for the sake of getting clean. Not to mention the fact I’m not allowed to smoke in here. That’s a little annoying, but I’m getting used to it.

I’ve tried to escape, as well. I’ve lost count how many times.

My roommate is alright though. His name is Gil. He’s fun to tease. A little depressing sometimes, but he’s good to talk to.

But I don’t tell him about my problems. He can’t know about all that. He doesn’t deserve to be burdened by that.

I can’t take it in here. I really do want to get better, but I don’t feel like I can. Everything my father said to me is still fresh in my mind.

I won’t ever recover. Not from any of that. That’s the unfortunate truth of this.

I guess that’s just how it is, sadly.

-Oz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading and please leave a review if you can <3


	12. Jeanne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written by @nawnomschnuff  
> content warnings: swearing, heavy mentions/implications of rape, alcoholism, addiction, mentions of comas, near-death, mentions of self-harm, suicide attempts, mentions of vomit, depictions of alcohol withdrawal.

Dear alcohol,

You almost killed me.

And I hate you for this. I hate you for those two days in a coma and for all the days afterwards.

Shit, I shouldn't have started all of this.

I've always like caipirinhas and so on, sex on the beach. All of that. That never hurt me before.

Until he came into my life one night and destroyed it. It hurt. I felt dirty. I hadn't wanted this, I was afraid to tell someone, I was showering and scrubbing my body for hours, I was crying, it even bled.

When I finally got out of the shower, my skin was red and dry and it hurt. I couldn't sit.

There was nobody there for me, nobody to comfort me.

Oh, right. There was someone to comfort me. It was you.

You were there to comfort me after all of that.

And that's where it started. Because of him. Because of a man I don't even know the name of.

I drank alcohol for months. For six months straight.

I knew that I was addicted and I wanted to stop it. So I've tried to kill myself.

With you, alcohol.

I drank and drank and drank in that evening, alone, on the sofa, crying about how my life had been destroyed in only fifteen minutes.

It had hurt. I still remember that night. He had been at the bar where I had been searching for girls. It was a bar only for lesbians, so I didn't think that a man would be there. He put something into my drink, but it wasn't enough to get me unconscious.

I was awake the whole time, but I was too weak.

He dragged me out of the bar and into the bushes and I couldn't scream because I was too weak.

Nobody noticed me.

Nobody noticed how wrong the world was in that moment, how wrong society was, how wrong he was.

I fell into coma because of you and because of him.

I woke up three days later, I was asked if I wanted to go into rehab. I didn't.

I went out of the hospital and back to you. And I found comfort in you. You made me feel my sadness stronger, I was able to cry it out.

Until you gave me the happiness I needed.

And then I had enough. I had enough of you and your fake happiness and enough of no therapy which I needed.

So I went into cold withdrawal. I packed my things, barely able to stand on my own two feet. The taxi driver was visibly disgusted by me. I stank of alcohol, I hadn't showered in three days, I was sweating.

I didn't care if he thought that I was stupid. I was stupid.

As soon as I told him to drive me to rehab center, he began smiling. He began smiling, just like that and wished me good luck.

He said that it was hard. He had been on weed in his teens and went to rehab too.

He was kind. I told him about how I had been raped and how I had left hospital and how I had now gone into withdrawal to finally be able to live.

He was a kind man. Not like the one who had destroyed my life.

He helped me bring in the package and wished me luck again.

I hope that I will meet him again one day.

And now I'm here. It's my fourth week now. The gross things are over. I'm not throwing up anymore. But my hands are always trembling, I'm having at least two panic attacks a day and shit, the cravings are killing me.

I try to stay positive, but I really am not. If those cravings don't stop, I'm going to relapse.

I don't want to. I want to finally live a good life. I just want to find out who had destroyed my life.

I want to know his name and his age and where he comes from.

I want to know why he did that.

I want to know if I could kill him or if he would kill me.

I don't want to do this anymore. I want to be free of him, but I can't.

I still know where he touched me.

I want you, or weed, or heroin, just something to shut down the pain in my chest and the tears, but at the same time I don't want to.

I don't want to disappoint anyone. My therapist, he's nice. I like him a lot and he says that I have great potential and he thinks that I won't relapse.

But what if I do? What if I come back to you?

What if I'm at a party and you are offered to me? What if I can't resist the urge to taste the burning feeling again?

If he was dead, I'm sure, I would be ok.

But he's still somewhere.

He's alive and he's not in prison and he could do it again.

My therapist told me that half of all women were sexually abused or touched inappropriately.

Half of all women.

This is insane, this whole world is insane and I don't want to live here.

I don't want to live with this man on the same planet or with you, alcohol.

Get out of my life.

Maybe I'll ask Domi and Noé if I could stay with them and their brother. They're nice. Domi claims to not be addicted, but she is. And Noé is really nice. As nice as the taxi guy.

I like them. Living with more people would probably help me to not drink you and to feel safer. I'm going to consider this and ask them.

I'm still afraid of you, alcohol, and I hate you, but I love you.

I loved you for such a big part of my life that I cannot possibly forget it.

Thank you for helping me this night.

I hate you for giving me even greater scars than the ones I already have.

Yours thankfully,   
Jeanne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading and please review if you get the chance! also sorry for posting two in one day yikes.


	13. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written by @i-write-hurt-comfort  
> i would like publicly thank @nawnomschnuff for being my Reim. if it wasn't for him, haha, well. i'd rather not think too much about it, anYWAY- (asjhfakfhjkgh this is written from a personal perspective haha. ha.)  
> content warnings: near-death, mentions of physical trauma, prescription drug abuse, drug addiction, accidental addiction, mentions of anxiety, drug withrawal, mentions of vomit.   
> enjoy!

Dear OxyContin,

Isn’t it strange that after everything, I end up here?

When that car crash happened, over 6 years ago, when I was 19, I thought I’d die. I’m still convinced I did, for a moment. It was a hit and run, and I still don’t know who did it.

Trapped. I felt trapped in my own skin. I couldn’t move. Oh, but how it was so different to now. I’d give everything to go back to being trapped only physically.

I wasn’t sure I’d walk again. But by a miracle, I did. I always imagined I’d end up in physiological rehabilitation someone, because I was never very good at keeping up with the physio treatment. However, I would not have dreamed of ending up in a drug rehab.

Ah, but before I reminisce about how we met, I should probably remind you who Reim is, shouldn’t I?

Reim is my best friend, and has been since middle school. He was the first face I saw when I woke up from the coma, after being hit by that car. You tried so very hard to tear us apart, but sometimes, interpersonal relationships are stronger than a physical connection.

But you weren’t just physical though, were you?

I’ll get to that later.

I was in hospital for 6 months, most of which I was bed-ridden or unable to walk. But eventually, they saw me fit enough to leave, and continue recovering at home. I’d been drugged up on morphine for a considerable amount of time, but sadly, the doctors did not take much pity on me.

I was 20 when I left. And when picked up my first prescription for codeine. I was given 60mg doses, only to be taken for occasional pain. “Occasional” must have been a joke. I was in constant agony, if I must say. So filling in that prescription was surely my top priority when I got out of there.

Maybe that was where my mistake was.

Reim spent a lot of time at mine, and one time, he just so happened to find the codeine pills. He warned me of the dangers, but I assured him that he was talking nonsense, and that I wouldn’t get addicted. Reim stuck by his words, certain that I’d go down a path of abuse.

But you see, that wouldn’t happen to me.

It’s a strange feeling, really.

It all starts on a lonely afternoon. Ever since leaving the hospital, I’d dealt with a bit of anxiety, here and there. Possibly enough for a diagnosis, but oh my, the last thing I wished to do was return to the hospital. So, I dealt with it alone.

Anyway, I was lying across my sofa. And I was lonely. Sure, I wasn’t in any pain, but through no fault of mine, I ended up staring at the pills. And they stared back at me.

And I’d remember that floaty, light-headed feeling I’d get whenever I took them. Fleeting, but strong. A relief.

The next thing I know, I’m walking over to the pills, and picking them up. It was just once. It wasn’t abuse, of course not! Just a little pick-me-up, you know?

What comes next?

Next comes next time. Next time was the second time I was alone, dealing with anxiety, and the pills were oh-so-conveniently there for me. And that becomes a third time.

And I wondered, when did things really get out of hand?

Reim noticed, too. He noticed my supply of codeine going down, and down, down. He asked me if I was abusing them, and I said no.

A drug addict? Why, no. That could never be me.

Nevertheless, he made me promise to never abuse them.

I have to say here: I truly am sorry, Reim. I know he won’t read this, but I must write it down.

I broke our promise countless times. The guilt consumed me each time, but oh, how that leads to an even nastier cycle. Because guess what helps alleviate guilt, and shame, hm?

Oh, that’s right! Your friend codeine!

Eventually, I found myself back at the GP’s, saying the codeine wasn’t working anymore. Without batting an eye, they gave me a prescription for tramadol. Ahh, that’s even stronger.

Reim still hadn’t a clue that I was taking them when I perhaps shouldn’t have been.

No, I definitely shouldn’t have been. Because I continued chasing that high until I was taking the pills several times a day, every day.

I tried to come off them. They weren’t helping with the pain anymore, nor did they help the anxiety.

Cold turkey was not a good idea.

After only three days, I went back to my doctor again, and complained one last time that the painkillers didn’t help the back pain. So they gave me a new drug, one last time.

Aha, that was you, OxyContin.

I was 21 when I had my first encounter with you. And my lord, you are strong, my little friend, aren’t you?

That really was the last straw. I was hooked after a week. I went through one more day of withdrawals before taking to the streets to buy you, or forging prescriptions.

I lost track of things after that. I believe I was 23 when I started injecting, and that’s when Reim caught me, right in the act.

He was devastated. Upset that I’d broken our promise. And disappointed that I hadn’t asked for help when I obviously needed it.

Reim demanded that I quit them straight away. So I took a week away from work, and completed detox.

Somehow, I completed the detox. But the day after I finally stopped sweating and shaking and puking, I relapsed. And I felt awful, but really, the temptation and desire to keep using was unfortunately much stronger than my willpower.

I returned to work, however, and told Reim I’d quit. He didn’t need to know I was using again. And my dose kept increasing, as well. I had to be high somehow. I needed you in my life, on a physical and emotional level.

When I was 24, I lost my job for being unreliable.

And from there, as well as using Oxy multiple times a day, I would abuse any pills I could find.

A year or so after that, after things had kept getting worse and worse, and my anxiety got the better of me, I tried to move myself from 80mg pills up to 160mg in one go.

Well that was a bit stupid, wasn’t it?

I ended up in hospital, to no surprise.

Oh, did I mention that was only 10 days ago? I’ve only just finished detoxing again. And oh my, that is a truly revolting process.

If I go back in time, the one thing I’d do would be keeping my promise. It was silly to break it, because look where I am now?

Is this what I get out of everything? I was naïve, I am quite aware.

My body is breaking down. I have no functioning veins in my left arm anymore. It’s like I’m best friends with the one thing that’s slowly killing me.

It hurts me to say this, but I want you to stay. It’s easier that way. And at least, if you stay with me, no one else gets hurt.  

Besides, you’re the best I’ll ever get. And I’m not sick of you yet.

I’m just sick for you.

-Break

(p.s. Tell Reim I’m sorry. You see, if this is the best I can get, then I’m not sure it’s even worth trying anymore.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading this depression ass shit, only two more to go! please do leave your thoughts~


	14. Vanitas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written by @nawnomschnuff and it's fucking depressing  
> content warnings: swearing, drugs, strong implications of suicide, mentions of depression/anxiety, references to death, implied character death, self-harm, rape, prostitution, references to child sexual abuse.  
> enjoy if that's even possible at this point.

Hey,

To fucking nobody. This isn't a letter to drugs like it's supposed to be.

This is a suicide note because I am not going to continue living this useless life.

I'm fucked up, yes. Part of that was the heroin, part of that was the meth, part of that was the coke.

I don't even try to deny that I'm an addict, but what else is left in my life except for the addiction that’s followed me for seven years now.

I was eleven when I did coke for the first time because my parents kicked me out and died a week later.

Due to what? Right, fucking alcoholism. I didn't have money, I didn't have a home, so I ended up on the streets, selling my eleven years old body to creepy strangers, and I bought coke.

Oh shit, did I buy coke and prostitute myself?

I’m not gonna lie, I did that until yesterday. Now I'm in a stupid ass rehab, I'm going to get myself out of here exactly after finishing this letter.

They think they could help me.

They think that I could get well.

Me? Feeling alright?

Shit, a dream.

It is a dream and it will always stay a dream.

Everyone in here has hope. Noé wants to help people not to fall into the addiction pit, Astolfo finally realized that smoking weed doesn't help his problems, Gilbert may seem weak, but he is stronger than most in here. Oz and Roland may seem hopeless too, but if they really give it their all, they can get healthy and have a good life without illegal or legal substances fucking up their lives.

Well, I'm not one of them.

I lost my parents at the age of eleven, I got kicked out by them a week before, I started cocaine and selling myself when I was twelve, I started heroin and meth when I was fifteen.

That was three years ago. Three years ago I found my two and only best friends.

Shit, that may seem dumb, but I would really like a good life.

But there's not going to be one.

The wounds and the scars are too deep for that. My depression is too deep for that, the anxiety attacks are too hard, there is no single possibility for me to ever become happy.

I'm not blaming the addiction for my death which is soon to come.

I'm blaming my parents.

I'm blaming society.

I'm blaming all the therapists.

I'm blaming all the people who have used and destroyed a child, I blame all the fucking people I have seen dying in the streets, be it from cold or an overdose.

I blame myself the most though.

I blame myself for not seeking help because I was too proud and too afraid at the same time.

I just want to fucking die. I want to leave this world. I want to leave this world which is so full of people who hate me and who love me and shit, I want to hurt them like they have hurt me. A stupid revenge, huh?

Killing them would probably better, but killing myself in jail would just be hard, I remember having that one friend who came out of jail and killed himself the next day because he had no possibility to do so in there.

Shit, I'm so fucked up.

I just want to have a knife right here and cut a 'good-bye' into my skin and then let myself bleed out slowly and painfully.

My life was painful.

I think this is also the way I should die – the way my life was.

Noé would probably scream at me for this and tell me that my life will be wonderful after this.

The truth is that it won't.

I have nowhere to go, I have no idea what I could even do my life.

I have no motivation at all to do anything, except for ramming a fucking knife into my heart to make it stop beating.

I'm sick. I'm so, so, so sick of all that shit going down here.

Just look at Elliot and how he got pulled into that stuff, or at Jeanne who got sexually abused and found her peace in alcohol.

I don't blame anyone for getting addicted.

Killing the pain feels good, so good and there can not be anything better than the bitter burning of alcohol in your throat or the prickling pain in your nose after doing cocaine.

Hey, lovely therapist guys, you're probably waiting for me to say that this is a joke, huh? Ha, no, it isn't.

I don't give a fuck about my life anymore because it means nothing.

I deserve death. I suffered enough in my life.

And you people can't help me. Just accept that. Don't go and look for me when you open that letter after I left.

Just don't.

Don't care about me – I'm not worth being cared about.

I'm only worth being abused and used as a toy for grown men and women who find pleasure in paying a twelve years old kid to have sex with them.

I'm going to die and shit, I surely am excited for that.

Is there something awaiting me after death? Is there a god? Is there a heaven? Will I find someone up there who loves me? Will I see my parents again? Will I see my only three friends again? I'll find out tomorrow.

Only a few hours left in this world which wants me dead so desperately.

And hey, world, god, Mom, Dad. I'm going to fulfill your wish. I'm going to die.

I'm finally going to find my peace.

Peace without heroin and cocaine meth.

That is truly a dream.

Talking about dreams – what are your dreams?

I want you to talk about that in the next group therapy. Talk about your dreams. Talk about it honestly.

If it is killing yourself, great! If it's relapsing, great!

If it's finding happiness, then you are one of the people I look up to and I want you to know that you deserve the world, more than I ever did.

You don't deserve to see the world I have seen – and if you have, shit.

You're probably like me now.

Dear Noé, please fulfill your dream. Help people. I don't want anyone to end up like me.

Dear Elliot, please consider if love is worth the pain.

Dear Domi, you have Noé to support you. You'll be fine, of course.

Dear Gilbert, you're stronger than you think.

Dear Roland, you should also consider if love is worth falling back into old habits.

Dear Lottie, please know that you can also find someone who loves you more than a drug.

Dear Dante, don't go on abusing valium. It's not worth it. You need to feel what you are feeling, not the numbness valium makes you feel.

Dear Vincent, you're probably as fucked up as I am.

Dear Astolfo, go on and confess your love to that guy. Continue to be who you are. You're the manliest man I've ever met.

Dear Oz, you can make it. I promise.

Dear Jeanne, if I knew who that asshole is, I'd kill him before I kill myself.

Dear Break, painkillers will only make the pain worse after a while.

Dear Leo, I hope that even after all you've gone through, you can still have a future.

Dear me, you're going to be in peace as soon as you leave here and find either enough heroin or a knife.

I'm so happy that it's finally going to be over.

I'm so happy that there's still a life waiting for all of you and I'm happy that I will observe it from somewhere else.

Those are the last meaningful words anyone will ever hear of me.

Shit, there are tears in my eyes.

Even though I hate this world, it hurts to leave just like that.

After all I've lived here for eighteen years, right?

As soon as you, therapists, read this, I'll already be dead.

Please tell everyone to stay strong.

I know that I'm not strong, but it's not worth it anymore.

I guess this is goodbye then, huh?

Well, goodbye.

Live your fucking dreams.

-Vanitas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! only one more to go now.


	15. Leo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written by @i-write-hurt-not-comfort  
> content warnings: drugs, addiction, suicidal thoughts, mentions of prostitution, smoking, mentions of death/suicide, references to alcoholism, overdose, mentions of major character death.   
> i would say "enjoy!" but let's be realistic that's just not gonna happen at this point

Dear heroin,

This is the last thing I’ll ever write. And it’s to you.

We were asked to write letters to our drug of choice, envisioning them as a person. I appreciate the sentiment, and for some people, it might have work. But you’ve stolen every tiny shred of hope I have left, so what’s the point?

I don’t see the point in carrying on with my life, either. Everything is too much. The withdrawal, the pain, the hate I have for myself. I want it all to end.

There is one person who has stuck with me throughout everything. And I’m sorry, Elliot. I’ve tried. I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I’ve tried to get out of this cycle and make something of my life, but I can’t.

I’m sorry for making you relapse. Elliot, you can do something with your life. Please don’t let your memory of me hinder you.

And then there’s you, heroin. You make me want to do this. You make me want to end my fucking life.

I don’t even remember when we met. All I remember was, from that very first hit, my life spiralling downhill. I went from going in and out of rehab, failing each time, to prostituting myself on the streets and being homeless, whilst Elliot made something of himself. I was then taken in by Elliot, who payed for my cigarettes and drugs, for fucks sake. And then being around me made him relapse. I messed up his life too.

And now, I’m giving up mine too. I’m shutting myself away, and leaving this world. I’m going to a place where I can finally be at peace. I’ve tried to be strong for too long, and it’s not working.

I’ve always hated myself. My mother died at birth, and my father turned to alcoholism and killed himself. I grew up in foster homes, being kicked out of one and sent to another because I was unsettled, supposedly. I struggled in school, purely because I fought with everyone. I was thrown out of every institution and therapy group I was sent to. I was just a problem child. A problem for everyone.

And I still am.

So I give up.

The path I’ve gone down isn’t one I chose. I know it’s my fault, though. I won’t deny that.

I can make a noose of the very bedsheet I sit on. And I will.

I just have to see everyone one last time. I wouldn’t by choice, but a few of us were called to a discussion. Probably for the therapists to tell us that we haven’t made progress, or something.

When I’m back, though. I’ll do it. I’m ending this shithole of a life.

I’m sorry Elliot.

Goodbye.

Oh, and dear heroin: you won.

~~-Leo~~

How could this happen?

I have to write this down. Whatever this note is – a letter, a suicide note – but whatever it is, I need to write this, in case I go down the same route. Or rather, for when I go down the same route.

One of the patients here has escaped, and he’s been confirmed dead. Suicide. A heroin overdose.

You killed him.

His name was Vanitas. I spoke to him once, over a few cigarettes, when I felt particularly low. That was yesterday. Only yesterday.

And now you’ve killed him. You’ve taken him like you tried to take me, several times.

He left a note for us. He told me I have hope.

He thought he didn’t have hope. He thought no one was there who could help him.

When everyone saw the messages he left, they cried. We all cried, for an hour. Our therapists made sure we were okay, and that we weren’t feeling the same way.

I lied.

And in that moment I thought to myself: if he could see all these people, who loved and supported him? And see how not alone he was?

Would he have still done it?

I’ve never seen Elliot so upset, either.

What if that was me?

My hand is shaking as I write this. I can’t imagine what it would do to him if I killed myself.

Fucking hell, he’d probably end his life too.

I can’t do that to him. I can’t. I love you, heroin, but I hate you for doing this us. And I love him more than I love you. He needs me and I need him. He can’t do this without me.

You took everything I had away from me. Not that I ever had much. But you can’t take Elliot.

I have to try. For him. Not for myself, but for Elliot. That’s the least I can do, for everything he’s done for me.

Writing all this feels slightly pointless, I have to say. I feel no relief. No alleviation.

Oh well.

I might as well turn this in as my letter, in that case. It’s an illegible mess, but it’ll do.

So, dear heroin: fuck you. My life is mine. You’re too selfish to deserve a part of me. I might still be a problem child, sure, but I am my own problem. And you don’t get to be one of my problems anymore.

-Leo

(P.S. Feel glad you’re not actually a person. I would’ve killed you like I was going to kill myself, you motherfucker)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! this was the last letter; the final chapter is something else~  
> (who do you think pushes through?)


	16. One-year update

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this took so long! it took me a while to write everything up. so! basically, jack chose the progress of the PH characters, and i chose the VnC characters.   
> i hope you guys enjoyed this fic! it was super fun for both of us to write! :3  
> content warnings: drugs, addiction, suicide, swearing, prescription drug abuse, alcoholism, self-harm, relapse, mentions of rape, mentions of prostitution, overdose, major character death.  
> enjoy!

**_Daily progress update_ **

**_29th September 2019 – 17:50_ **

_As noted after the assignment was given, patients who wrote letters to their drug of choice were closely monitored. Their progress was tracked, and even after they left, an attempt was made to keep track of where they were._

_There were, admittedly, mixed responses. Some good, some not._

_It was exactly a year ago now when we received the letters. And now, after one year, I feel it is important to note where they are currently – alive, or dead – for both them, and for future patients also._

**_Noé_ ** **_Archiviste_**

_No_ _é_ _first left the facility merely a few days after his letter was submitted. He was always promising in terms of recovery, but what he accomplished almost immediately upon leaving exceeded all of our expectations._

_Within a few weeks of leaving, he joined a course, studying both the treatment of addiction, as well as how to raise awareness on the matter. A few months after that, he began doing presentations to adolescents, willingly sharing his story with them, and telling the stories of his fellow patients, in attempt to deter them. And the feedback received was always nothing short of exemplary. He never failed to get the message across._

_Frequently, he returned to this rehab facility, to thank the therapists, and visit Astolfo. It did, however, eventually come to light that he had smoked cannabis on multiple occasions, which unfortunately led to us having to stop him seeing Astolfo, in case it was encouraging the other. But he didn’t consider this a relapse – instead, he saw it as part of the recovery, and came to learn that using did not actually accomplish anything._

_Shortly after this, he began training to be a drug and addiction counsellor, participating in work experience at many treatment centres. Which, as expected, have given us endless praise about his compassion and kindness. And the last we heard of him was that he’d been accepted to do a TED talk, speaking out about why exactly weed is so addictive amongst teens._

_He is, however, a rare case; against all the odds. As expected, no one else made progress quite like he did._

**_Elliot Nightray_ **

_Elliot was discharged from the rehab after approximately 4 months. He made exceptional progress, and – with the exception of a few bad days – was largely cooperative in therapy. He resumed his job in training to be a therapist, and was able to get a stable job too._

_He visited Leo frequently, although when Leo finally left, about a month after him, they decided not to live together. According to him, they met up multiple times a week, but had mutually agreed not to live together in case either of them relapsed. He also told us about trying to quit smoking, albeit failing._

_Unfortunately, a couple of moments after that, Leo passed away, and to not much of a surprise, the moment he heard the news, Elliot went straight to his dealer. He didn’t go back to heroin though, but rather crystal meth._

_He knew, however, that living a life as a drug addict was not right. He wasn’t suicidal, and before his addiction could lead to death, or his life falling apart yet again, he checked back into rehab. This rehab, to be precise._

_And that’s where he is now: here. Alive. I do sincerely hope that he stays clean this time._

**_Dominique Sade_ **

_Soon after accepting that she was, in fact, an addict, Domi decided to put more effort into partaking in the therapy activities. Her progress was beginning to look promising, however, after about 3 months, she decided herself that she was better._

_So, she left, and resumed her job. But she wasn’t better. Domi had never finished her program, and thus had never completed the therapy. Therefore, unfortunately but expectedly, she relapsed very soon._

_According to her, this period of her life was a blur. As her drinking increased, so did her cocaine abuse. And thus, after a few months, she returned to living life as an addict. She lost her job, and consequently spent every penny she had to continue using drugs._

_Eventually, about one month, Domi hit rock bottom once again, and upon No_ _é_ _’s advice, returned to rehab._

**_Gilbert_ **

_After leaving, Gilbert – to no surprise – continued smoking cigarettes. Last time we contacted him, he mentioned smoking something close to half a pack a day._

_But he had not relapsed. In fact, contrary to what most recovering addicts tell us, he found cravings for weed to be a rare occurrence. And according to him, whenever he did experience cravings, he would bake, or cook._

_Shortly after discovering how this hobby helped him, he started working in a bakery, and was soon able to being supporting himself. He also continued to meet up with Oz, purely because he founds comfort in his energy, and enthusiasm, despite everything he continued going through._

_Oz’s uncle then invited him to move in with them, primarily because their house was closer to the bakery where he worked, but also because Oscar thought it would be better for Oz if he were there. And when we contacted him recently, he told us he had not relapsed even once._

_Approximately 90% of addicts relapse at some point. It’s always rewarding to speak to one of the 10%._

**_Roland Fortis_ **

_After a couple of months with us, it soon became clear that Roland was not going to recover with us. The neurological and psychological damage from the meth abuse had sure enough developed into a severe case of schizophrenia, and therefore, for his sake, Roland was transferred to a mental hospital, where he was given therapy and medication for the more severe of his issues._

_6 months later, he was discharged from the mental hospital. However, unfortunately, he did not receive the support he needed, and therefore, rather unsurprisingly, he relapsed after about 2 months after that._

_It didn’t end there, either. Shortly after becoming addicted to meth again, his schizophrenia returned, and worse than before._

_He went in and out of treatment centres, but ultimately found himself on the streets after being evicted from his home. Subsequent to that, Roland attacked someone in the street, supposedly for money, and was thusly sent to prison._

_Sadly, his treatment in prison was not ideal, other prisoners reportedly assaulting him several times. And about 2 weeks ago, the prison staff contacted us to say that Roland had taken his own life from within the prison._

_I had sincerely hoped that he’d be able to reclaim his life from the substance, but unfortunately, not everyone gets their happy ending._

**_Charlotte_ **

_Lottie went 2 months clean after initially leaving. Then, unfortunately, after this time, her mother passed away from liver failure._

_It must have been hard to see a loved one die from the same thing she previously recovered from, and to no surprise, without support, she returned to prostitution. Of course, being in that environment also meant constantly being surrounded by drugs, and within a month of her mother’s death, she was back to snorting cocaine each night she was out. And with her ‘business’ being more than enough to suffice for her flat, she soon found herself back into the spiral of addiction._

_When Lottie spoke to us, she mentioned that it felt different this time. It was never fun, and it was never how she wanted to live her life. So, after another few months, she attempted to stop on her own. It was successful for a few weeks, but like most addicts, she soon found herself unable to fight the cravings alone, and once again relapsed._

_She then came back to this rehab for a two-month program, before leaving and staying clean. But once again, unfortunately, Lottie only stayed clean for a few weeks, until the anniversary of Levi’s death came around once again. Her recall of that night was scary, to be honest; if it were heroin, she would not be alive right now._

_Fortunately, she was found by someone at the same bridge where Levi died. And now, a year after leaving, she is back here – for the last time, we hope; she deserves better._

**_Dante_ **

_Immediately after finishing his minimum stay at the rehab, Dante left and checked into a treatment centre for anxiety and insomnia. He managed to deal with it with us, but knew he would struggle to cope back in the real world._

_Intentionally or unintentionally, however, he failed to tell the treatment centre about his history with diazepam, and was quickly put on diazepam. A low dose; that only came with worse consequences, as the moment he returned to regularly taking the drug, his tolerance shot back up to what it originally was._

_After 4 months, the pills at their lower dose did little to nothing, and he broke out of the treatment centre, returning to a life of abusing Valium._

_Then, approximately a month after that, someone out drinking with him supposedly recommended Xanax. The way Dante saw it, he’d already relapsed, so there was very little point trying to stay clean to him._

_The way he described it, from there on, his life slowly went to shit. And about 3 months ago, he overdosed on Valium._

_We didn’t speak to him, though. Instead, diary entries were found in his apartment. It seems as though he was going through a very dark period, and sadly, was unable to push through it._

_There’s very little good that can come out of someone’s suicide, but the last I heard, his story had made the news, and reached medical societies. And since then, many people in the pharmacology law departments have begun to rethink psychiatric and medicinal approaches to prescribing Valium._

**_Vincent_ **

_Vincent was never going to be one of our most promising patients._

_As expected, he left the rehab on his own free will (“broke out” would be more accurate) 4 months before his program was due to end. And from here on, we have very little intel on what he did._

_Messages found on his phone, however, imply that he never told Gilbert that he was his brother, but rather kept it to himself, as he was too “disgusting” to contact him. He returned to drug dealing, and making torture videos. And, of course, he was back on crystal meth._

_The closest thing we have for a suicide note is a message to one of his ‘colleagues’, stating that he saw Gilbert one last time on the street, smiling with someone who seems to be Oz (by description), before using every trace of drugs he had on him to end his life._

_His body wasn’t found until a week after his suicide, and it is unlikely that Gilbert will ever know that his kidnapped brother lived past his childhood._

**_Astolfo Granatum_ **

_Given the fact he was one of our youngest patients ever, to be totally honest, we did not have very high expectations of him. However, after breaking out only once, Astolfo successfully completed his program, and left the centre 7 months after leaving. This wasn’t as easy as we’d hoped, though, due the fact we had to stop him seeing No_ _é_ _._

_After leaving, he was taken in by a foster home, who’d had several foster kids before whom struggled with drugs. They tried their best, but ultimately, after a couple of months, his addiction got the better of him, and he relapsed._

_He told us that he went back to smoking pot nearly every day, right up until a doctor pointed out that he was not able to start hormone replacement therapy whilst still smoking illegal drugs._

_So, for the final time, it seemed, Astolfo stopped the drugs again. This time, to alleviate his cravings, he mentioned smoking cigarettes, although not regularly. And understandably, his foster parents preferred this over him getting high every day._

_Finally, he started college again, and will be starting hormone replacement therapy in the near future._

_It is early days, but nonetheless, his progress so far is much beyond our expectations._

**_Oz Vessalius_ **

_I always hoped Oz would lead a sober life. I know it’s wrong for me to have favourites, but I really did hope he would. And whilst he didn’t quite there, his progress is still exceptional._

_He didn’t leave until 12 months after arriving. He was due to leave after 8 months, but attempted to break out 4 weeks before, and thus was kept for another 5 months. Upon leaving, he also agreed to visit a therapist weekly, in order to learn to deal his past traumatic experiences._

_However, talking about how really felt about everything was something he just couldn’t do. And after every therapy session, he would drink. He never went back to tranquilisers, nor cigarettes, but slowly, drinking returned to being a daily thing. In moderation, at first. Oscar knew quite soon, and did his best to ensure nothing got quite as bad as it did before._

_After Gil moved in with them, his sleep reportedly got better. But evidently, the therapy wasn’t doing too well, and one evening, he drank enough to land him in hospital, if not to kill him, if Gil hadn’t have found him. He didn’t go back to rehab after that, though. Instead, they sought out an addiction counsellor – one problem at a time. One day at a time, even._

_Unfortunately, though, he never stopped drinking entirely. Physicians are concerned at the state of his liver, particularly since he started binge drinking at such a young age._

_As I said, I sincerely wish the best for him. But at this point, the most he can do is take this slowly._

_One day at a time._

**_Jeanne_ **

_Jeanne stayed with us at the rehab for another 5 months after she wrote her letter, before leaving and achieving just under a month of sobriety whilst living with No_ _é, Louis, and Domi._

_Unfortunately, after this time, she was offered weed at a party. And once high, she drank. She drank, and subsequently recalls feeling the guiltiest she’d ever felt. Regardless of the guilt, though, she proceeded to smoke weed. Increasingly, until it was daily. And then that moved to heroin. And then she spent three months as a heroin addict, desperate for anything to help conceal the memories of the rape incident._

_The withdrawals were too intense, and thus she attempted suicide, with the heroin. Fortunately, she was found before she died, and was about to remain alive. But after being discharged from the hospital, Jeanne instantly returned to heroin._

_A little after this, she found herself at a group therapy, one again sick of living life as an addict. There, with some miracle, she found No_ _é, running a trial session. And upon seeing him, she broke down._

_Thankfully, she took No_ _é’s advice, and returned to rehab a few weeks ago._

_From what we last heard, she was doing well, especially after reporting the incident to the police again, only to find that multiple women had reported similar incidents, and thus the case was back in active investigation again._

**_Xerxes Break_ **

_We never once received direct feedback from Break once he’d left the facility._

_He never completed the program, but rather left on his own will after staying here for a month. The cravings were too strong, he said. That was the most we heard of him before he took off._

_His friend, Reim, however, did his very best to intervene. Reim told us that he’d visited Break every single day, and begged him to return to rehab. Break always promised to, but never did. And then, after a couple of weeks after diving head first back into a life of regular prescription drug abuse, Break overdosed on OxyContin – intentionally._

_Unfortunately, he passed away, after calling Reim one last time. The ambulance was too late._

_When we contacted him again, Reim told us that he still visited his friend’s grave each day._

_The issue of prescription opioids is an unrecognised one. Patients dependent on their effects were not warned. No one asks to go down that path. No one asks to experience the temptation to use, and be high. It can happen to anyone; that single message must be spread before those suffering can get over the stigma, and thusly ask for help. Before it’s too late, as it was with Xerxes._

**_Vanitas_ **

_After leaving his suicide note, Vanitas was found dead in the streets of the neighbouring city later that day. The cause of death was heroin overdose._

_Both the patients and therapists were hit hard by the incident. And I wish there was more I could say for him, but sadly, there’s nothing left to say._

**_Leo Baskerville_ **

_When we received Leo’s letter, we were shocked, to say the least. He is a good liar, incredibly so. Our psychiatrists were under the full impression he was genuinely making progress, so when it came to light that he’d almost committed suicide, it was a significant setback._

_Nevertheless, the loss of Vanitas clearly motivated. After completing the full course of his program, he left the rehab, and found somewhere to live. He also kept well away from the streets he used to live, which would’ve been a huge trigger to use. And to no surprise, Elliot was beyond proud of him. He’d gotten over his addiction, and had now gone several months clean._

_He got a job, too, and was able to have a steady income. When we contacted him, he also shared with us that he’d regained his love for music, which thankfully was enough to get him through his worst days._

_It seems like he got a happy ending, doesn’t it?_

_He didn’t._

_One morning, when he’d borrowed Elliot’s bike to travel to work, a car came speeding around a corner too fast. He was hit, and killed instantly, and the driver was never found._

_It’s awful, really. The fact that such terrible things can happen to anyone._

_But in a place like this, it’s hardly as if that’s a rarity anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this far! be sure to drop your thoughts on the ending!


End file.
